


how to quit you

by susiecarter



Category: Eye Candy (TV)
Genre: Enemies With Benefits, Fuckbuddies, Kissing, M/M, Pining, Post-Canon, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:55:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28308615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/susiecarter/pseuds/susiecarter
Summary: The screen went black under his thumb, but it didn't matter.The text hadn't been long. The whole thing had shown in the preview, even without the phone unlocked.marriott closest to you. 216. 7.And it had been from an unknown number.
Relationships: Bubonic/Tommy Calligan
Comments: 10
Kudos: 29
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	how to quit you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sandrine Shaw (Sandrine)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandrine/gifts).



> ♥!

Shaw had just about wrapped up when Tommy's phone buzzed.

Tommy had thought he'd turned it off, but apparently he hadn't. Shaw gave him a flat look, and he grimaced apologetically and picked it up, tilting the screen toward him on the way to putting it in his pocket, which was where he should have put it in the first place.

He stopped halfway there, swallowing. The screen went black under his thumb, but it didn't matter.

The text hadn't been long. The whole thing had shown in the preview, even without the phone unlocked. _marriott closest to you. 216. 7._

And it had been from an unknown number.

Shaw kept talking. Tommy didn't hear a word of it. His skin felt hot, stretched tight; his heart was pounding, the blood rushing in his ears.

Two minutes, tops. Shaw'd already finished the actual briefing. Then it would be over, and Tommy could Google for the Marriott closest to the department, and go.

He shouldn't. He knew he shouldn't.

But he also knew he was going to, and he couldn't even figure out how to regret it.

It had been going on for months.

It hadn't started out this way. They'd been tracking somebody new, this guy who'd called himself Spider, like that was any kind of decent hacker alias—but he'd been good and he'd been vicious. He hadn't worked like Bubonic, hadn't set traps and let people walk into them.

In point of fact, he'd hated Bubonic. Mocked him, called him obsolete. Timid, too comfortable. Unwilling to tear down the system the way it needed to be torn down.

Bubonic hadn't taken kindly to it. And before long, Tommy had been looking down at some texts from an unknown number, promising him everything he needed to crack the case and nail the douchebag once and for all.

He'd had to show up in person. Alone. Bubonic hadn't wanted to transfer the information any other way; hackers knew better than anybody how few things genuinely couldn't be hacked. Keeping it analog—no phones in the hotel room, hallway cameras Bubonic had nonchalantly disabled in advance—had been the best way to go.

Or at least that was what Bubonic had told him. And Tommy hadn't exactly had the leverage to push him on it.

One last text had come. Hotel, room number, time.

Tommy had gone.

Bubonic had been there. Tommy had recognized him right away, a face that shouldn't have been familiar but was; and maybe that had been part of it, that unexpected simmering fury over the trick he'd played, that he'd been standing right in Tommy's goddamn apartment and Tommy hadn't known. Maybe that had been part of the reason it had gotten so—because he'd meant to keep his cool, he had. He'd meant to go there and take whatever Bubonic was going to give him, one day's truce in their cold war for two, and then leave.

But instead he'd ended up backing Bubonic into a wall, fists in Bubonic's shirt, Bubonic sneering in his face. He'd—

He'd taken what Bubonic had been ready to give him, all right. He'd let the anger eat him from the inside out, blaze up so hot it wasn't quite anger anymore; he'd shoved Bubonic, pinned him down, and they'd been trying to hurt each other one way and then started doing it another way. Put it like that, and it almost made some kind of sense.

Bubonic had bitten him, dug his nails into Tommy's shoulders so hard he'd left bruises. Tommy had cursed at him and shoved him, gripped him by the throat.

It was just that at the same time, somehow, Tommy had been rubbing himself off frantically against Bubonic's hip.

He'd come, once then and once later—after Bubonic had given him a snide smile, told him how excruciatingly predictable he was and then pushed him down. He hadn't—he hadn't exactly _meant_ to squeeze his eyes shut and let Bubonic fuck his mouth.

But he hadn't quite managed to stop it, either.

_A remarkably productive meeting, wouldn't you say, Detective Calligan?_

He'd gotten what he'd actually come for, too. He'd left. His throat had ached for two days.

And then, after a week, case solved and everything back the way it was supposed to be, he'd gotten a text.

Hotel, room number, time.

Unknown number.

Even now, looking back, he couldn't guess how long he'd spent staring at it. He'd been useless for the rest of the day. He hadn't been able to concentrate on anything, hadn't been able to _think_. He'd told himself he was going to clock out, leave and go home to his apartment and have a decent meal for once, get a good night's sleep. Bubonic was just fucking with him. There was no way he'd actually sent that and meant it, no way he'd just—tell Tommy where he was going to be and when. If Tommy had let himself take that text seriously, he'd have had to do a whole bunch of things: alert Shaw, get a team lined up, get some squad cars out there ready to lock down the hotel.

So he hadn't taken it seriously. He hadn't done any of those things. He'd gotten up, phone clutched in his hand, and he'd said goodnight to Yeager, and he'd left. He'd—

He'd been going to go back to his apartment. He'd meant to go back to his apartment.

He'd gone to the hotel instead. He'd gone to the room. He'd been two minutes early; Bubonic had used that against him later, had said vicious mocking things about how _eager_ he was, how easy for it. _How embarrassing for you, Detective Calligan._

They'd fucked.

They'd fucked again, and again, and again.

The texts always came, sooner or later, if Tommy waited long enough. And Tommy always went, because Bubonic had been right: there was something in him that was too desperate, too hungry, too goddamn eager not to.

Bubonic was there already.

Bubonic was always there already.

He never seemed like he was impatient. He never came to the door. Tommy always let himself in, and once he'd closed the door behind him, started walking toward Bubonic—that was usually when Bubonic would look up at last from whatever digital fires he'd been setting with his phone, arching an eyebrow and greeting Tommy with a cold smirk.

It took a little longer today. Tommy was already inside arm's reach when Bubonic glanced up, tilted his head and set his phone aside.

"Always so timely, Detective Calligan. Boring day at work, or are you just that desperate?"

Tommy stood there, and looked at him.

He was supposed to say something. He knew that. That was how this worked. Bubonic bit, Tommy bit back. They sniped at each other, circled and bared their teeth and tore chunks out of each other, as if being shitty enough to each other canceled out the fucking, kept it from counting—kept it from being something either of them needed to actually do anything about.

But abruptly Tommy was tired of it. Just the thought of it, of having to come up with something to spit back at Bubonic, as if they were taunting each other like usual—as if Tommy hadn't come here of his own free will, wanting something he didn't know how to ask for—god, it felt so fucking pointless.

He thought about telling Bubonic that, and almost smiled, even though it wasn't really funny. That was probably the easiest way to make sure Bubonic never so much as texted him again: standing here and looking him in the eye and earnestly telling him Tommy wanted him. Wanted to fuck him, sure. Wanted to—see him. Wanted to be looked at by him. Wanted his goddamn attention, and not just when he was horny or pissed off, but all the time—

Then again, he might like it. He might enjoy knowing that he'd gotten that far under Tommy's skin, that he had a whole new list of ways to screw with Tommy's head, worse than he'd ever been able to before.

Yeah, he'd get a kick out of that, Tommy decided distantly.

He didn't say anything.

Bubonic looked at him with narrowed eyes, tilted his head and then stood. He reached out and hooked a hand in Tommy's belt, chin tipped up the barest fraction like it was some kind of test.

Tommy didn't know whether he was passing or failing, by swaying into the tug of Bubonic's hand and swallowing hard. He just did it, because he wanted to; because he was tired of wasting time pretending that he didn't.

Bubonic's lip curled a little, his usual sneer. He caught a couple fingers in the waist of Tommy's jeans, and moved the other hand in a steady firm stroke down the line of Tommy's fly, finding the shape of Tommy's cock behind it and following it.

Tommy drew in an unsteady breath, and let his eyes fall shut. It was good—it was always so fucking good. Knowing it was Bubonic touching him, at least as much as the actual physical pressure of Bubonic's hand, and fuck, he was so fucked.

By the time Bubonic had him on his back on the bed, a knee between his thighs pressing up just short of too hard against his balls, his eyes felt strange and hot; he couldn't make himself look at Bubonic. He moved, helpless, when Bubonic yanked his fly open, touched his hip and his ass and then his cock—full-body, caught between the white-hot sensation, the pounding of his heart, and the tight twisting knot in his gut.

"Am I boring you, Detective Calligan?"

Tommy bit down on a string of swears, tensed and pushed himself up helplessly into Bubonic's hands, and only then actually heard the words.

"What—?"

"Am," Bubonic enunciated, with painstaking clarity, "I boring you."

Tommy risked a glance, dimly bewildered. Of all the things he'd been half dreading and half anticipating Bubonic seeing in his face right now, boredom hadn't even crossed his mind.

Bubonic raised an eyebrow. "Not all of you, obviously," he added, giving the underside of Tommy's cock a stinging flick with one fingernail that made Tommy hiss and jerk underneath him. "But I used to be able to rely on you for more entertainment than this. Have we already lost the spark that made our time together so special?"

His tone was cutting, dripping with disdain; his eyes were sharp. But the rest of his face was blank and still, where Tommy might've expected a smirk, or at least a smug slant.

"That's not—it's fine," Tommy said. "I'm fine."

Jesus. He'd told better lies than that to Shaw's face.

Bubonic's stare turned wintry. "Oh, Detective Calligan," he murmured, full of false sympathy. "This isn't one of your mundane little undercover assignments, and I'm not one of the glorified street criminals you're usually required to dupe. You forget: I _know_ you. I've watched you, I've studied you. I took your entire life apart to see what made it tick, and then put it back together before you'd even noticed." He paused, and then leaned down—blanketed Tommy, slow, deliberate, and breathed the rest right into Tommy's ear: "I'll give you one chance. Say the word. If you want me to get up right now and leave, I will, and it'll be like none of this ever happened."

Tommy laughed.

He didn't mean to. It wasn't loud; a soft huff, that was all, half a breath through his nose. He just couldn't help it.

Because it was ridiculous. It was impossible. _Like none of this ever happened_ —except it had, and there was no way Tommy could forget it. There was no way Tommy could go on as if it hadn't, not when he felt like this. Not when Bubonic had him tied up in knots, wanting things Bubonic was never going to give him too much to—

Too much to even hide it properly.

He'd handed Bubonic too many clues already. He'd be safer if he hadn't, safer if he could find some way to cover for it now; but he sucked at playing it safe.

Tommy had made a career out of lying. But maybe this time the truth was the only way out.

Bubonic had pushed himself up a little, just far enough to give Tommy a narrow-eyed look. Trying to figure out what the fuck was so funny, probably.

Tommy looked up at him, and drew a slow breath, and said, "That's not what I want. This is what I want," and he reached up, gripped Bubonic by the shoulder before Bubonic could avoid it and pulled him down, and kissed him.

Bubonic pushed back against Tommy's grasp—startled, maybe, which was a thrill all its own given how unbelievably fucking hard it was to catch him by surprise. But it was reflex, no real intent behind it, and it wasn't enough to free him; Tommy held on, and Bubonic went still, that first immediate tension gradually leaching away.

Tommy kept at it. Bubonic let him. There was something in his conscious non-response that told Tommy he was—was waiting. Attempting to figure out what the hell kind of point Tommy was trying to prove, or maybe just giving Tommy enough rope to hang himself.

That was fine. Tommy was already screwed, and Bubonic already liked making his life hell. This was just upping the stakes a little, that was all.

He kissed Bubonic hard. Hard, filthy, full of teeth.

Bubonic—kept letting him.

He broke away. They stared at each other.

Bubonic's face said nothing, no matter how hard Tommy searched it. But he didn't knock Tommy's hand off his shoulder. He stayed right where he was, holding himself up on his arms, over Tommy.

Tommy loosened his grip, testing. Shifted it to the nape of Bubonic's neck, caught his fingers in a handful of those messy half-curls. Bubonic didn't move.

Tommy did it again. Wetter, this time. Slower.

Bubonic's mouth had opened for him both times—passive, that was all, letting Tommy press in to see what he'd do once he got there. This time, though, he caught Tommy's tongue against his teeth, bit down, a brief dull pain.

Tommy's breath caught, and he shifted helplessly, rolled his hips up and was rewarded with the steady pressure of Bubonic's thigh, Bubonic's hand on his ass.

Was Bubonic taking him literally—giving him what he'd said he wanted, if that was what it was going to take to get a fuck out of him? Or encouraging him to embarrass himself, to give Bubonic material Bubonic could taunt him with later—

Except Bubonic was pressing him down into the bed, and that hand on Tommy's ass wasn't moving, wasn't yanking the waistband of his jeans down or creeping around his hip to grip his dick again and hurry this along. It skimmed up his waist, after a second, and then found his other hand, the one that wasn't clutching Bubonic, and closed around his wrist, trapped it tight and pinned it down.

Jesus. Tommy made a noise into Bubonic's mouth and tightened his fingers in Bubonic's hair.

He didn't know what it meant. That Bubonic had let him, that Bubonic was kissing him back; that Bubonic didn't want _him_ to leave.

But whatever it was, he'd take it.


End file.
